


I love you enough for this

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, M/M, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary loves John. And she sees much more than either he or Sherlock knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And so it begins

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sherlock Mini-bang--art by the super-talented i-the-wild.tumblr.com!!

“So how did you, uh, hear about this…me?” 

Mary was regretting her decision to meet at the Costa Coffee near her flat. It was busy on a Thursday night, and a bit loud. And the things she had to say to the man sitting across the table from her were of a fairly sensitive nature. She leaned in, attempting to close the distance between them and limit the shouting they’d have to do. She studied her companion as she did. 

He was an attractive man — he had a sweet, pleasant face. He was forty-ish, not terribly tall (certainly no taller than she was), but fit. He had greying sandy-brownish hair and his dark blue-grey eyes were kind, if a bit sad. With good reason, she supposed. 

“I am sorry to trouble you, Dr. Watson.” 

“No, no. Really. It’s okay. I guess I’m just surprised,” he said. 

“Didn’t really expect anyone would think to ask me for help with something like this. Not now, at least. And please call me John.” 

Mary returned his smile. “I apologize if this has brought up unpleasant memories, John.” 

“Not to worry,” he assured her. “The memories are far less unpleasant these days.” 

She nodded her understanding. “I confess that’s what I was hoping. When my friend first directed me to your blog and to Mr. Holmes’ website, I thought she was mad. Your blog hadn’t been updated in over a year and the website…” 

“Belonged to a discredited dead man,” John acknowledged. “Yes, I can see how that might have put you off.” 

“But as I read about the work you had done together, all the cases you had solved, I began to realize why my friend thought you might be able to help.” Mary grasped one of the doctor’s hands in her own. “You know his methods. You know how he might have seen things — if anyone can help me figure this out, you can.” 

John looked a bit rueful. “I just don’t want to get your hopes up,” he said honestly. “I learned a lot from him, but I’m not the consulting detective.” 

“You are a doctor and a soldier, and you worked with him for nearly two years,” Mary insisted. “I trust you.” 

She waited, watching the man as he stared at his coffee on the table in front of him. She had not expected to like him. She hadn’t really expected anything at all, other than the rather unlikely possibility that the doctor who’d once worked with Sherlock Holmes might be able to at least give her a new perspective on her plight. He looked up at her then, his gaze very steady and sympathetic. 

“I am sorry about your father,” he began. “Look, why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning, and then…well, we’ll see if there’s anything I can do.” 

Mary beamed, feeling the tension in the pit of her stomach beginning to unclench. She had long since resigned herself to the fact that no one would be able to help her. How strange that this unassuming man should fill her with more confidence than every member of the Metropolitan Police she’d yet met with. She released his hand, flushing a little as she realized how long she’d been holding it. 

“Thank you. Just…thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he chuckled, pulling a small notebook and a pen from the inside breast pocket of his black wool jacket. “So, uhm, your father…” 

“Arthur Morstan.” 

“Right. He disappeared last year?” 

“That’s right. He was a financial executive in America — fairly successful, I understand. He’d once had a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. He got in touch in September and we enjoyed something of a reconciliation.” 

“You hadn’t seen him in some time, I take it.” 

“Only once since the divorce. My parents split up when I was twelve. He stayed in America while Mum and I returned to Britain to be near Georgina Temple — my mother’s dearest friend since they were children. She lives in Weybridge. We didn’t have any family to speak of.” 

“And your mother…” John began tactfully. 

She had conveyed some of the details to him in her email, but Mary appreciated his sensitivity. “I lost her when I was fourteen. Aggressive, metastatic breast cancer.” 

“I’m so sorry,” John said softly. “You were very young.” 

Mary nodded. “It was…awful.” 

“And your father came over?” 

“He did, though he managed to miss the funeral. He turned up two days after and offered to take me back to America with him. His relief when I refused was pretty obvious.” She sighed. “Still, he agreed to pay for me to finish up at a good school, and signed off his permission for me to spend all my holidays with Aunt George. He sent other money, too, from time to time. Never much and never regularly, but it was something, I suppose.” 

John nodded. “But things changed last autumn?” 

The noisy group of students who’d been sitting by the window finally got up to leave, taking a significant portion of the ambient noise in the café with them. Mary leaned back in her chair, warmed by the gentle expression on Dr. Watson’s face. He was very easy to talk to, and even easier to trust. 

“From the time I finished school, I heard from my father twice a year: a card with a cheque at Christmas and the same on my birthday. But on September 5 last year, he rang. It was an awkward conversation — he’d been a stranger for most of my life. But he sounded very upset; said he’d had a reversal of fortune. Apparently the mortgage crisis hit his firm pretty hard; after ‘limping along’ for a few years, he’d finally had to give up. Anyway, he said he wanted to see me, to make up for all the lost time. We made arrangements to meet once he’d arrived in London.” 

“But he didn’t arrive.” 

“His cases did,” Mary offered. “They arrived at the hotel, but none of the desk clerks could confirm having seen him. I called in at the hotel when he missed our appointment, and I’ve been looking for him ever since. Three weeks after he disappeared —” 

“You started getting the strange texts.” John nodded. He was still scribbling in his notebook when he glanced up and caught her eye. Mary’s breath hitched as they stared at one another. She felt a strange little fluttering as John’s smile left a crinkle in one of his cheeks. 

He looked away quickly, clearing his throat, and took a sip of coffee. “Mmmm, so, right. The police — when did you call them?” 

“Almost right away, but of course they didn’t do anything until he’d been missing for 24 hours,” Mary replied. “The first detective was very helpful, but they had absolutely nothing to go on. All we could prove was that he had, in fact, been on the early flight from New York, arriving at 8:45 a.m. on the day I was to meet him. He was seen on CCTV getting into a cab at Heathrow. After that…” 

Mary shrugged. “I visited the police again, after the first text arrived, but they haven’t been able to trace the mobile it was sent from.” 

John’s head cocked to one side as he considered the notes he’d made. “Well, you’re right: it isn’t much to go on with. But I have a few ideas.” He paused, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’d like to try to find some answers for you, if I can. I have a friend at the Yard who might be able to help.” He looked up at her through his lashes, his grin utterly disarming. 

Oh, John Watson was _good_. 

Mary felt herself blushing. A hand automatically reached up to smooth her short blonde hair. She left like a teenager on her first date. It was ridiculous — she’d just met the man. 

“Yes, good,” she started, suddenly awkward. “I really appreciate this.” 

John raised an eyebrow at her. “Miss Morstan, I’m pretty sure it will be my pleasure.” 


	2. And there is so much left unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented i-the-wild (on tumblr)!!

Sometimes, like tonight, when she heard the soft noises he made in sleep, Mary would roll over and watch as John’s dreams played out across his face.

It was still something of a surprise to wake and remember that he was beside her. They had been sleeping together for nearly five months, but sharing a flat for only two.

The relationship had gone quickly, no question. Her father’s disappearance remained unsolved, though John had managed to come up with some useful leads. Nevertheless, the instant attraction they’d both felt that first night had quickly overtaken their early ‘business’ relationship.

Within days of their first meeting, John had asked her out on a date. Mary had teased that it might be considered unprofessional for him to date a potential client. John had promptly declared himself resigned from the case (though, naturally, he had no qualms later about helping his girlfriend look for her missing father, in a purely unofficial capacity).

A week later, Mary had invited him on a mini-break to Scotland. Three months after that, John had given up his simple bedsit to move into her flat.

Her friends said she was mad, most of them of the opinion that responsible grown men would never have run around London chasing serial killers alongside highly questionable vigilante types.

Her Aunt George, too, initially had been less than enthusiastic.

She’d lectured Mary about taking her time and being cautious. George, who’d been like a mother to Mary, hadn’t gone so far as to mention Arthur Morstan by name, but had a great deal to say about “tying yourself to a man before you’re entirely sure of his character or his regard” (Aunt George loved employing Austenian language in these situations; she knew it appealed to Mary’s literary academic nature).

To be fair, though, Aunt George’s objections had lasted only until the dear woman had met John herself.

He’d taken them to a lovely restaurant, a little over a month after the first official date. He’d brought both Mary and her aunt flowers. He’d held doors, and offered Aunt George his hand as she got out of the cab, and taken their coats, and pulled out their chairs. He’d asked Aunt George to choose the wine and advise him on a main course — he’d deliberately chosen a French restaurant, remembering that Mary had told him about her aunt living in Paris for nearly ten years.

Watching him that night, the pleasant affection and physical desire that had drawn Mary to John H. Watson had bloomed into a love so deep and so rich Mary wasn’t sure she’d be able to function normally ever again.

The fact that he had — shortly after they’d seen Aunt George to the train — taken Mary in his arms and confessed that he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her had made her own attachment complete.

And so, they’d embarked on a whirlwind romance that had led swiftly to talk of living together and (much to her surprise) weddings.

She’d never been much for the idea of marriage, given her parents’ example. In fact, her own previous experiences with long-term relationships had been based on a strict understanding that she would never, under any circumstances, be interested in matrimony.

John mentioned it once and she giggled like a little girl. He affected her in ways she had never experienced, and certainly never expected.

And in the months they had been together, Mary had learned many things about this fascinating man with whom she had fallen in love:

  1. John had a temper. It rarely made an appearance, and was usually reserved for those who threatened or hurt those he loved, but it was there. Kept firmly under good regulation.
  2. He didn’t like to talk about Afghanistan. It was an undeniable part of who he was, and he was proud of his service, but it troubled him to discuss it. Particularly when it reminded him of the comrades he’d lost.
  3. John was loyal to a fault. Shortly after they’d moved in together, Mary had been informed she was being passed over for tenure at the university. John had been incensed, threatening to speak to someone he knew “in government” to see that justice was done (though what impact he thought some bureaucrat could have on a university board, she had no idea). She’d talked him out of it, of course, but had enjoyed his outrage on her behalf.
  4. John was a bit of a daredevil. She had guessed that about him, but seeing it as their relationship grew had been an eye-opener. And she’d discovered that she, too, had a bit of a hitherto-unknown wild side. The night he’d taken her down to find one of Sherlock Holmes’ “homeless network” to chase down information about her father, and they’d nearly been mugged, and had ended up running for their lives...well, the old Mary probably would have been terrified. Somehow the Mary who loved John Watson was not.
  5. He missed Sherlock Holmes terribly.
  6. John was usually a heavy sleeper; only two things ever changed this…



His Afghanistan flashbacks were easy enough to identify. He would toss violently and eventually sit bolt upright with a muffled cry. She didn’t fear the nightmares. They were much rarer these days and John was always soothed back to sleep once wrapped in her arms.

This, though, was another matter.

She curled up on her side, listening as her fiancé sighed without rousing. The sound was contented; there was even a trace of a smile on his lips. He shifted a little, his hips arching as though seeking contact with an unseen body.

Unseen, but not unknown. Not anymore.

John had told her everything about Sherlock Holmes. He had been perfectly candid about his best friend, and how important their association had been to him. Initially, it hadn’t occurred to her that there had been anything more to their relationship than that — and why would it? John was straight; he’d never shown any interest in men. Nothing she had seen since they’d started dating had given her any reason to doubt his attraction to women. More specifically, to her.

It wasn’t until they’d moved in together that she’d become aware of it.

Every few nights (perhaps once a fortnight, or even a little less often), John would moan and pant (and sigh) his way through what was clearly an erotic dream. He never woke, and when she’d tried to ask him about the dreams he’d been puzzled. It had soon become clear he didn’t remember them.

At first she’d tried to tell herself it didn’t mean anything; that John’s subconscious was simply replaying a random pleasurable experience for him in order to keep him under. She’d clung to the idea until one night three weeks past.

John hadn’t really stirred (nor would he remember the dream later), but he had — for the first time — said something recognizable, and out loud.

“ _Sherlock_!”

Had he called the name on any other night, during any other dream, she would have thought nothing of it. Of course he missed his mate.

Of course he did.

But this wasn’t calling for a colleague or a long-missed friend. He was shouting a lover’s name.

Oh, she was certain now they’d never been on such terms. Once she’d met some of John’s friends from that time (Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade), she’d learned there had been some who’d wondered about John Watson’s relationship with the great detective. Mike Stamford — John’s old friend from medical school, who had introduced John to Sherlock Holmes in the first place — made it sound as though it had been something of a running joke. Even in the press.

Still, for all the speculation, each one of the people who’d known the pair best had been adamant that they were not a romantic couple. Because John was straight.

Of course he was.

John had chuckled at the whole thing one night over dinner as

Stamford teased him about the “double room” in Dartmoor. He’d been a little wistful, Mary thought now, but had said, with perfect Watson frankness, “I’m not into cock, not that it would have mattered. Sherlock wasn’t interested in anything — _anyone_ — like that.”

But had there been desire lurking beneath the clearly profound affection, something powerful enough to lead someone who’d always been attracted to women to be sexually drawn to a man?

John snuffled quietly, bringing her back to her present pain. He was still smiling as he rolled onto his belly.

“Hmmmm.”

She rolled away, unable to watch any more. She could not lie beside him and witness him unconsciously reliving an affair that had never happened.

She allowed a tear to slip free. It rolled over the bridge of her nose and over her cheek to soak into the pillow. The situation would not be resolved easily, if at all. John didn’t remember the dreams — to tell him would be to invite an analysis of something that, heretofore, had lived only in the recesses of his mind.

She would lose him.

Because it was no longer a question of hopeless longing, of love never to be requited.

Sherlock Holmes was not dead.


	3. And company becomes a crowd

“John?” 

Mary wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and walked out toward the front hall. There was no sign of John, but she’d heard the door slam; she knew he had to be somewhere in the house. 

She passed through the lounge and the dining room, noting immediately that the doors to the conservatory were open. 

John was standing in the middle of the glass enclosure, staring out at the back garden. 

“John? Sweetheart?” 

She approached cautiously, not entirely sure he could hear her. He’d been so very distracted lately. She laid a gentle hand on his back. 

“John?” 

She could see the muscle clenching and unclenching in his jaw; his mouth was fixed in a hard, tight line beneath the moustache. 

There was tremendous tension in his shoulders and he was breathing hard. 

“Sweetheart, what is it?” 

“He was there. Again. Just waiting for me when I left the surgery.” 

Mary sighed a little. “What did he want?” 

John turned to face her, his expression pained. “What does he always want? Three weeks since the bastard resurrected himself and he’s still looking for forgiveness. Or absolution. I don’t know.” 

Mary waited for a moment, allowing John to calm somewhat. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

John was shaking his head. “I can’t. I’m still too angry with him, Mary. I can’t even talk to him right now without wanting to punch him again.” 

“I know, John. And I understand how hurt you were —” 

“Furious,” he corrected sharply. 

“Okay. But he did have such a good reason for it. Sweetheart, he was protecting you. And your friends.” 

“But why did he have to lie to me?” 

“He said…” 

“Yes, he said. I know what he said. But surely there could have been some way. Why couldn’t he have found a way to contact me, just to let me know he was alive? I’d have helped him. I’d have gone with him.” 

Mary cringed inwardly. “You-you would?” 

“Of course, I...” John stopped, suddenly realising what he’d said. 

“No, darling, I didn’t mean...” 

“It’s all right. We hadn’t met.” Mary was trying very hard not to feel stung. “I-I guess we wouldn’t have if you’d gone.” 

John held her shoulders with both hands, his brow creased with concern. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t change this for anything. I love you and I’m grateful every day that we met. I don’t wish for anything different.” He pulled her into a hug, pressing his cheek against her own. “I just hate that he didn’t trust me enough to include me in something so big; so dangerous. I thought we’d got past that. When we first met, he used to run off on his own all the time. He wouldn’t tell me things. He’d break in places and leave me standing outside. He’d make decisions about cases and not let me in on it. But, in the end, I thought…I really believed that he’d learned to depend on me.” 

“I had.” 

Mary started at the deep voice echoing off the windows of the conservatory. John released her, fists clenched, and turned to where Sherlock Holmes was standing in the open door leading to their small garden. 

“Stalking wasn’t enough for you? Now you’re resorting to breaking and entering?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking a little bit (a _very little bit_ ) sheepish. “I was going to ring the front bell, but I heard voices and I thought…” He paused, his chin coming up in. “Well, you have been avoiding me.” 

“Can you blame me?” John barked. 

The detective released a very put-upon sigh. “Oh, for god’s sake. This is bloody Baskerville all over again.” 

“Baskerville…are you — BASKERVILLE?” John took two steps forward. Mary laid a hand on his arm, preventing him from swinging the punch he clearly intended to. John was seething now. “Are you really going to stand there and compare that with making me believe you were DEAD?” 

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. Mary was fascinated watching his face — it really was just as John had said. She could actually see the man attempting to process where he’d gone wrong. 

“John,” she said softly. “Let’s go in and sit in the lounge.” She tugged at his arm until he relented, finally taking her hand to follow her back inside the house. Mary looked over her shoulder to see the bewildered detective still standing in the conservatory. “You, too.” 

He nodded dumbly and moved to trace their steps. 

A few minutes later, with the two men seated on opposite sides of the room, Mary went to fetch tea. She debated something stronger, but wasn’t sure she wanted either of them armed with the heavy crystal tumblers from the drinks cupboard. 

She stepped back into the lounge and set the tray down on the table nearest her own favourite chair. Sherlock was still in his coat, flopped into the chair by the fire. John was sitting in the middle of the sofa, arms crossed over his chest. Mary took a deep breath as she started to pour the tea. 

“So, then, Sherlock. Do you mind if I call you Sherlock?” 

The dark curls danced as the man shook his head. 

Mary nodded. “So, Sherlock, what brings you here today?” she began gamely. “John says he saw you earlier on, near the surgery. Were you there for a case?” 

“Yes.” 

John snorted. 

“I was,” Sherlock reiterated. 

“Right,” John scoffed. “Which case is that? I know Greg doesn’t have anything for you.” 

Sherlock scowled. “He’s working on it,” he snapped. “I’m investigating a private case. For a friend.” 

“Oh? Oh, really? A friend,” John said sarcastically. “And who would that be?” 

“You,” Sherlock muttered. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“I’m working on Mary’s case,” Sherlock repeated. “For you.” 

“My case….but how do you know about that?” Mary walked across to place a cup in front of John before moving to hand one to the detective. 

Sherlock took the cup from her with a stiff nod. He took a sip while she resumed her seat. “Following John. Isn’t difficult to pick up the thread of the thing.” 

“So you have been spying on me.” 

“To help you.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t do me any more favours,” John grumbled. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mary intervened. 

“Is there anything you can tell us?” she asked, sipping her own tea. 

“Of course.” 

“Go on, then,” John baited. 

Sherlock addressed his comments to Mary, choosing to ignore the sullen former soldier on the sofa. “Your father arrived in Britain as scheduled and was taken by cab to an unknown destination from which he never returned. John has already started to work out what the texts mean…”

After more than twenty minutes, Sherlock finally paused. He glanced from Mary to John. “Problem?” 

Mary snapped out of her reverie, suddenly aware that she must be gawping. “But that’s…” 

“Amazing,” John said, his voice a little sad. 

“I don’t know what to say, Sherlock,” Mary started. 

The man stood suddenly, looking uncomfortable. “Yes, well, nothing to it. John would have come to the same conclusions in time. I…” He strode purposefully toward the front door. “I should be going. That’s all I wanted to say.” 

“Wait!” Mary followed him, casting a glance at her fiancé who was now staring blankly at the spot where Sherlock had been sitting. She grabbed Sherlock’s arm as he pulled the door open. 

“Don’t leave. I’d like you to stay.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?” He was watching John over her shoulder, she knew. She wondered if he was aware how vulnerable he looked. 

“He just needs a little more time,” Mary said softly. 

Sherlock stared at her for a moment then nodded. He slipped through the door and tugged his coat collar up as he walked toward the street. 

Mary turned back to find John still staring into space. In the time she’d known him, she’d never seen him look so defeated. 

“John?” 

“Yes?” His head snapped around at the mention of his name. 

“Help me with supper?” 

He smiled, and it was warm and familiar. “Absolutely.” 

_________________________ 

Two hours later, Mary was drying the last of the dishes while John swept the floor. She’d kept him busy chopping vegetables and laying the table and then helping her with the washing up, but it was no use: she could still see the sadness in her fiancé’s eyes. 

The time had finally come. 

“This isn’t going to work, you know,” she said, putting the last plate back in the cupboard and closing the door. 

“Hmmm?” 

“This.” 

“What?” John put the broom away and stopped near the kitchen window. 

“Pretending as though nothing has happened. Pretending not to be fascinated by the way Sherlock figured out the details of my father’s case. Pretending you aren’t dying to ask him more questions and go with him to the police.” Mary stood behind him and wrapped both arms around John’s waist. She kissed his neck below his ear, right where he liked it. “Pretending you don’t miss him.” 

“None of that matters,” John said flatly. He covered her arms with his own. 

“Yes. It does.” 

“He’ll do it again.” 

“What?” 

“Something stupid that he doesn’t tell anyone about. And it will probably make me so angry I want to kill him myself.” 

“Seems pretty likely,” Mary agreed. 

“He’s an infuriating bastard.” 

“Apparently.” 

“An annoying dick.” 

“So you’ve said.” 

John turned in her arms, his eyes damp. “I miss him so much.” 

Mary laid a gentle hand on her doctor’s face. “I know.” 

John kissed her then buried his face in her hair. He breathed her in and chuckled. “I honestly don’t know what I would do without you, you know.” 

“Well, that’s good news.” 

“I mean it.” John pulled back to look at her. “I’ve never had this, not with anyone. You know me better than I know myself, and it feels like we’ve always been this way.” 

“For me, too,” Mary agreed. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and withdrew from his embrace. “Which is why I’m going to get your jacket for you.” 

“Where am I going?” 

Mary turned in the corridor with a wry smile. “You don’t need me to tell you that, sweetheart.” She resumed her course, smiling as John fell into step behind her. 

“What will I say?” 

“It’ll come to you.” Mary took his coat from the hook by their front door and pushed it into his hands. 

John took it from her and slipped it on. “What if he doesn’t want — ” 

“John, it’s Sherlock. He’s been tailing you for weeks — of course he wants you back in his life.” 

John clasped her face in both of his hands. “Have I told you today how much I love you?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Mary teased. “Tell me again.” 

“I love you, Mary Morstan.” He kissed her once more, lingeringly. 

“I’ll be home before you’re asleep.” 

“Good. I’ll wait up.”


	4. And two become one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented i-the-wild (tumblr)!!!

Mary stared at her reflection, still not quite sure she recognized the woman in the mirror. She smoothed a hand over the long, ivory lace gown.

“Oh, you look so lovely, my girl!

Mary turned and opened her arms for her Aunt George. The much taller woman bent to capture Mary in a characteristic bear hug. Aunt George never did anything by halves.

When they parted, Georgina brushed a hand over Mary’s pink cheek. “You’re glowing. That’s how I know you’re happy.”

“I am. I really am. John is — ”

“George? George are you in here?” A high-pitched voice with a Belfast accent chimed from the corridor. A ginger woman peered through the half-open door. “Oh, there you are! Thank goodness. I thought I’d lost you.”

George tutted and reached for the woman’s hand. She drew it to her lips for a quick, affectionate peck as she drew her short and quite round companion into the room. “Honestly, Bridget, I can’t leave you on your own for a second. You get lost at home!”

Bridget made an exasperated noise, clearly having heard this before. She patted the hand that held hers. “That’s what you’re for. Why else do you think I put up with you?”

Mary snickered at her aunt and her aunt’s life partner. They were an unlikely pair, yet she couldn’t imagine either of them without the other — though that had been the case for some time.

They had been together at university and then been parted for many years. Bridget had been fearful of the climate of the time.

Instead of moving in with her lover, she had returned to Belfast and become a nun. She’d lived abroad for several years before a trip to London led to a chance encounter with Georgina on a platform at King’s Cross.

Bridget had left her order by then. She and George had reunited and been together ever since.

Bridget clucked as she looked Mary up and down. “Well, now, would you look at our girl? Aren’t you just the picture of a bride?”

“John Watson is a very lucky man,” George agreed.

“He is,” Bridget nodded. “And not just because you’re beautiful, though heaven knows you are. No, he’s had the sense to ask a strong, loyal and very clever woman to share his life.”

“He has, indeed.” George straightened Mary’s veil. “I’ve always said your mum would be so very, very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Auntie George,” Mary said, feeling the tears well up again. “Oh, I need a tissue. I can’t go out there with my makeup running down my face.”

Bridget tugged a handkerchief from the sleeve of her organza dress. She handed it to Mary, who immediately started giggling.

“This is handy, you know.” She dabbed carefully at the moisture around her eyes. “I didn’t have anything borrowed.”

“It’s got some blue as well,” Bridget offered. “The little cornflowers along the edge.”

“So it has.” Mary kissed her aunt’s cheek. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“I guess that’s about everything, then,” George said, looking about the room. “Marjorie has your flowers.”

“Good. Well, that’s it then,” Mary announced, throwing her hands up. “I’m as ready as I’ll be.”

“Hopefully John is, too,” George said. “Though I think he may have his hands full with that best man of his.”

Mary nearly snorted. She could only imagine the high-maintenance detective cooped up in the vestry, wearing not only a tie but a waistcoat, too. “Oh, I’m sure Sherlock will be a challenge, but John is more than up to the task.”

“I still don’t like him,” Bridget said, frowning. “All the dangerous nonsense he gets poor John involved with?” She tsked, settling herself on the small settee in the corner of the room. “Now, I know you say you don’t mind John running off with him all the time…but I think you might just be saying so to be kind. It’s not right! And I’d have given the boy a piece of my mind before things got too far, if I had been invited to the ‘special dinner.’”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bridey,” George sighed. “You weren’t even at home! I rang you at your sister’s to tell you all about it. And you grilled poor John at Sunday lunch two weeks later…what more do you want?”

“Auntie B,” Mary started gently. “You have nothing to worry about, believe me. John is careful — it’s Sherlock who gets into trouble more often than not. And my John was a soldier, don’t forget!”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Bridget replied. It was the tone only someone who had lived through The Troubles could employ.

Mary sighed. She bent and gave the older woman a gentle hug and patted her back. “He’s a good man, Auntie B, and he loves me. His work with Sherlock Holmes is just part of who he is, and I love him for it.” She withdrew from the embrace and smiled at the older woman. “Besides, sometimes he takes me with him.”

“Oh, well, that’s no better!”

The door creaked a little and her bridesmaid, Marjorie, appeared. “All right? I think they’re just about ready for you.”

“Oh, okay,” Mary breathed. She stepped across the room to take George’s hand. Bridget stood and joined them. “Here we go!”

___________

“C’mon, everyone! It’s Macarena time!” John called.

Mary laughed out loud as her new husband careened across the dance floor with both of her bridesmaids (her best friends, Marjorie and Anna), Molly Hooper and dear Mrs. Hudson in tow. He was more than a little tipsy and had finally persuaded the DJ to put on the ‘90s classic.

She sipped her champagne and smiled, not able to remember another time when she’d felt this happy.

“You aren’t joining them?”

Mary turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Sherlock was standing just behind her chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tie was long gone and the waistcoat was completely unbuttoned.

“No, not for this one.” Mary smiled up at him. “I’m more of a slow dancer, myself.” She patted the chair next to her. “Sit with me?”

Sherlock considered the seat for a moment then nodded. He settled next to her, placing his glass on the table. They both turned to watch John’s antics on the dance floor.

“WHOOOO!” Dr. Watson threw both arms in the air (at the wrong moment, of course) and bumped into Molly as he began shimmying his way toward the head table.

He wriggled his way back to stand directly across from where Mary was sitting — he crooked his finger seductively and Mary happily obliged. As he leaned over their ruined place settings, she stood and wrapped both arms around his neck.

Their kiss was very messy and just a little nasty. Mary licked her lips appreciatively when they were done. John kissed her nose.

“Just you wait, missus, until I get you home,” he giggled. He spun on his heel and weaved his way back across the polished wood floor to where his female fan club were waiting, cheering him on.

Mary sat again, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs beneath the heavy skirt. She snuck a glance at Sherlock, who was thoroughly distracted by his friend’s flailing to the cheesy music. The man’s expression was almost entirely inscrutable except…yes, there it was. His bottom lip trembled.

Sherlock’s eyes softened, just for a moment, until he realized he was being watched. He turned on Mary, his mask in place once more. “What?”

“I’m glad you did this for him. The suit, the church, the speech,” Mary said. “Thank you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I…I did not feel I could refuse, given —” He waved a hand; unable or unwilling to speak again of the years John had believed him dead.

“I know. I’m happy about that as well — that John has been able to forgive you and that you two are back together.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “If by back together you mean that he has agreed to continue assisting me with my work, then, yes. So am I.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Sherlock simply stared at her.

“I love him,” Mary said patiently. “Desperately. But you know that.”

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

“When you came back, to be honest, I wasn’t sure that would be enough.”

“I see.”

Mary smirked. “Ha! I’m starting to know you now. I knew you would say that! But you don’t, really, do you?”

“No.”

Mary turned in her seat to face him and laid a hand on Sherlock’s knee. He scowled down at it, but she ignored him. “The thing is I was worried I would lose him to you. That once he’d got past the hurt and allowed you back into his life that what he had with me would pale by comparison.”

“Why would I make any difference to his relationship with you?”

“Because you are so important to him, Sherlock. He missed you so very badly. The thrill of the chase, the chance to be part of something truly important again and the irresistible lure of being needed: you irrevocably changed the course of his life.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, looking away to the dance floor again. The little hint of fondness crept into his eyes as he watched John spinning with both hands on his own arse. “I-I…we work very well together. He is very useful.”

“You love him.”

Sherlock’s head snapped around so quickly it made Mary jump. “Sentiment is dangerous and pointless.”

“That’s as may be, but it doesn’t matter. You love John. You risked your life to save him.”

“And Lestrade, and — ”

“Yes. Them, too. But you’d still have done it if it had been just John, wouldn’t you? You would do it again in a heartbeat,” Mary said gently. She captured his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

“I —” Sherlock cleared his throat, his nose twitching. “I am, of course, very glad to have John’s friendship. He is loyal and dependable.”

“And you love him,” Mary reiterated. “You know it is okay to say it. He loves you, too. But you knew that, as well, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“You are his best friend,” Mary continued. “And he carries an affection for you that he doesn’t even completely understand.” She studied Sherlock carefully. “I think you do, though.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “But I have never wanted…”

“I know. And I suppose some part of John knows that, too. So he loves you the way you will let him.”

“That’s why you were worried when I returned?”

Mary nodded. “You are a very tough act to follow, Sherlock Holmes. But I know now that I was worried for nothing. John loves me, too. Really loves me. And this is the life he’s chosen.”

Sherlock nodded, looking a little bewildered.

“What I’m trying to say is, I want us to be like family,” Mary started cautiously. “You will always be an essential part of John’s life, and as that life now includes me…”

“What do you want from me?”

“Be my friend, too?”

“Why on earth would you want that? The man who takes your husband off on life-threatening adventures, away from your home and from you? The man your husband…loves…”

“Sherlock, I’m not scared John will run away with you. We both know he isn’t the sort. And neither are you, I think.”

Sherlock looked at the floor, shaking his head. “I don’t need another friend.”

“Fine. How about a-a…sister?” Mary cheered at the idea. “Actually, I like the sound of that. I’ve always wanted a brother.”

Sherlock snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can have mine.”

Mary reached across and grabbed the stubborn chin and turned Sherlock to face her. “Nice try, but I’ve met Mycroft now and I don’t want him. Far too pompous.” Sherlock smirked at that. “No, you’ll do splendidly. What do you say?”

The detective stared at her for some time. The Macarena was winding down and the DJ was changing things up with a lovely slow tune: “Only you” by The Platters.

Finally, Sherlock nodded. Mary was flooded with relief, and genuine pleasure. Not giving him time to get away, she threw her arms around him and squeezed.

“Thank you. Again. For everything,” she whispered, and kissed his cheek.

Sherlock was already unwinding himself from the embrace, nodding and muttering that it was “Quite enough,” when John returned to the table.

“Hello, what’s this? Are you hitting on my wife, mate?” He grinned at them, clearly delighted to see them getting on so well.

Sherlock huffed his irritation, reaching for the whiskey he’d set on the table.

“Sherlock was just saying that he’d be happy to come to dinner, when we get back from Greece. Weren’t you Sherlock?”

The man glowered at her briefly, but nodded.

“See? All sorted. Family dinner when we get back from our honeymoon. What could be better?”

“A dance with my wife?” John suggested, holding out his hand.

“Oh, yes, please!” Mary lifted her skirt and shifted around the end of the table to join John on the dance floor. She slid easily into John’s arms and leaned her cheek against his.

“I love you, Dr. Watson.”

“I love you, Mrs. Watson,” John sighed.

“I’m so happy,” Mary whispered.

“Me, too,” John whispered back. “And here’s to a lifetime of it.”


	5. And now it's time to say goodbye

“Six months. Longer than they predicted.”

There was silence from the chair beside her bed. Mary didn’t need to look at her husband of two years to know he was crying silent tears. It wasn’t the first time. His hand clutched at her fingers. 

“Ow…sweetheart…” 

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry. Shit.” John released her hand immediately. He gently straightened her frail fingers out over the mattress beside her body. He stroked softly over the back of her hand. “I’m…sorry. I just…I’m not ready, Mary. I can’t — we’ve only just started.” 

He dropped his head into his hands. Mary twined her fingers through his hair. She’d always loved his hair. There was more grey now than when they’d met, but somehow it suited him. 

“Shhhhh,” she whispered. She struggled to swallow around the lump in her throat; she was so dehydrated now. “Sweetheart, we’ve had four months more than they thought we would.” 

“Jesus, six months,” John muttered, lifting his head to look at her. “It isn’t enough.” 

“I know. Nothing was ever going to be, was it?” 

John shook his head, looking miserable. They’d talked about it, endlessly, since the day of her diagnosis. Somehow that didn’t help with the reality they now faced. 

She was going to die. Aggressive, metastatic breast cancer, just like her mum. 

In truth, she might have died without ever having a diagnosis were it not for Alice Morstan. Mary had, at John’s insistence, asked her doctor about genetic testing — by the time they’d learned she carried the gene, they had already found the first tumour. 

“I love you,” John whispered. 

“I know you do,” Mary whispered back. She was very weak now. She’d elected to remove the feeding tube two days past and had been refusing water for hours. They’d moved her to palliative care at hospital from hospice care at home three days earlier. “I love you, too.” 

“Do you remember when we tracked down that art thief?” John asked. “After Sherlock came back? You and I were at the cinema when he texted, and we went together. That was quite a night.” 

“I remember.” Mary ran her tongue over parched lips. Without a word, John reached into the plastic cup on the bedside table and retrieved a tiny ice chip. He rubbed it over her parched lips and deposited the remainder of it in her mouth. She gazed at him with all the love she felt. Such a good man. Such a good husband. She hated to leave him. 

“I loved having you along. Sherlock did, too, I think,” John mused. “He’s never said, but I know he enjoys it when you help us with cases. And no matter how much he complains about them, I know he loves the Sunday roast dinners at ours.” He sighed. “He cares about you and he appreciates your company — well, as much as he appreciates anyone, really.” 

“I know,” Mary agreed. She patted John’s hand where it rested on her arm. “He’s a good man and a very good friend.” 

John nodded absent-mindedly. He was about to say something else when a spasm hit Mary. She keened and arched off the bed. 

Again, John did not hesitate — he hit the morphine pump and allowed Mary to dig her nails into his hand as they waited for it to take effect. He muttered nonsense as she rode the sharp edge of the pain, until she felt the wonderful impact of the narcotics in her bloodstream. She floated back down, hazy now but more comfortable. 

John had created a stir during their home care visit only two weeks prior. He’d grilled the nurse and then rung the oncologist to take a strip off her when he’d discovered they still had Mary’s morphine restricted. After a fair bit of shouting, the pump had been released. They were now free to administer pain relief as she needed it. 

It was such a significant moment to Mary; that John was finally acknowledging she was going to lose her battle, and that he loved her enough to help ease her suffering. 

She wanted to return the favour. But not now. Now she would rest. 

___________________ 

When she woke again, the sky outside her window was dark. She felt more lucid now than she had, and all the things she wanted to say to her husband were very clear in her mind. She was in pain, but that would keep. She needed to get this out while she still could. 

She looked to where John had dozed off in the chair beside her. “John?” 

“Hmm?” He rolled forward in the seat, bleary-eyed. “Yes, darling? What is it? What do you need?” 

“I just need to tell you something.” 

“All right,” John said, looking puzzled. “That sounds ominous.” 

“There’s something I’ve never told you, something important.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“I know.” 

“Know what?” 

“I know…about Sherlock.” 

“What about him, my darling?” John’s expression was blank. 

Mary sighed — this was going to be more difficult than she’d thought. “How you feel about him. How he feels about you.” 

“He’s my best friend. And I’m…actually, I think I’m still his only friend.” 

“You love him.” 

“Well, yes, I guess I do.” 

“And he loves you.” 

“I suppose if Sherlock Holmes could, in fact, love anyone, it might be me.” 

“You belong together.”

John froze. “What — what do you mean ‘together’? Mary, what are you suggesting?” 

“Do you know that when we first moved in together, you used to have erotic dreams?” 

“What?” John looked horrified. “But how did you — ” 

“Trust me,” Mary chuckled, coughing a little. 

John’s face flamed. “I’m so sorry…I don’t remember. I can’t believe I did that. But why didn’t you say something?” 

“I was afraid if you were aware of what your subconscious wanted, I might lose you.” 

“My sub — what?” 

“Sherlock.” 

John’s mouth fell open. When he had recovered enough to reply, his voice was tight. “You can’t possibly think that.” 

“You called his name a couple of time, in the middle of them.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Can’t have been.” 

“John Hamish Watson, do I need to describe the ejaculations for you?” 

John covered his face with both hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” 

“Shhhhh,” Mary soothed, ruffling his hair once more. 

“I’m so sorry.” John raised a tear-stained face to her. “I’m a horrible man. I’m a horrible husband — why did you ever marry me?” 

“You’re not horrible,” Mary chided. “You didn’t even know it was something you wanted. At least not when you were awake. At first, I didn’t think it mattered. Sherlock was gone and I thought perhaps I could help heal your broken heart. After he came back, I worried that if we talked about it, you might realize…” 

“I would never have left you,” John insisted. “I love you.” 

“That’s the problem. You love Sherlock, too.” 

John looked a little dazed as he considered this. “I-I don’t think…” 

“You do. Trust me. I’ve spent two years watching you together,” Mary said firmly. “You’d die for each other; kill for each other. The way you look at each other...”

“I admire him! He’s my friend!”

“John, you shaved off your moustache for him.” 

John opened his mouth to speak then snapped it shut once more. At length, he finally muttered, “You said you didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t,” Mary replied fondly. “But Sherlock did, and what did you choose?”

There was another long pause. John looked stricken. “But I’m straight.” 

“Oh, sweetheart, do you really think that matters?” 

John squared his shoulders. “I can’t discuss this now. Not now. I won’t.” 

“Have to. This is my final request, John.’ 

“What?” 

Mary lifted a hand to brush her knuckles over his damp cheek. “I’m going, my love. My time is up. You’ve given me such a lovely life — I wish it had been longer, but what we had was wonderful. And I want you to be happy.” 

The silence yawned between them. Tears continued to stream down John’s face. 

“How can you ask — Mary, I can’t even begin to think about…anything like that.” 

“I know,” Mary admitted sadly. “But there will come a time, when the hurt begins to ease.” 

“Please don’t say it…” 

“You’ll be able to move on. I want you to. And I want you to move on with the man you love.” 

John was crumbling now. “Please…stop…” 

“Tell him. When the time comes, promise me you’ll tell him.” 

John shook his head violently. 

“Please promise me, sweetheart,” Mary pleaded. “Promise me this. He makes you so happy. He may never be romantic, but he loves you. I can see it. And he needs you, more than he knows. Promise?” 

“Mary…” 

“Please, sweetheart.” 

John collapsed onto the bed, his head resting on her shoulder and one arm draped over her fragile body. Mary clung to him as tightly as she could and let him weep. 

She let the pain come. She was tired; weary of the fight. And now she was ready to let go. 


	6. And I owe you so much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All stunning art by the incredibly talented i-the-wild (http://i-the-wild.tumblr.com/) 
> 
> Made for the Sherlock Mini-bang--to tide you over for the last few hours!

John knelt at the grave, plucking the dead roses from the small bush he’d had planted by Mary’s headstone.

“There we are, my darling. Good as new.” He stood and smiled up into the sun. “It’s turned lovely this weekend. I think we’re finally going to get some warm weather.”

He sighed a little and toed the ground. “About the, uhm, the thing you asked me, the day before…” John cleared his throat. “It’s been almost a year, and I-I think I may be ready.”

John pushed his hands into his pockets and had a quick look around — he didn’t really want any grieving families to overhear something so personal. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be anyone close by.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said and I think…well, you were right. Of course you were. God, you were always right about things like this, weren’t you? You could always see…”

John shrugged. “I started to notice the way he looks at me. And, of course, he’s noticed me noticing. He’s tetchy. And he’s been avoiding me. A bit. I think he’s scared.”

John blew out a heavy breath.

“Frankly, so am I. I think I’ve always loved him, and now I’ve fallen _in love_ with him. I’ve had some time to think about the whole ‘man’ thing and you’re right — it doesn’t matter. But…well, I don’t know how he feels about any of it. Or if he even wants something like this, with me or anyone else.” He paused. “I brushed his hand yesterday, though, handing him his phone. He didn’t pull away. You said he needed me; I think that’s part of what you meant. The…touching. Tenderness.” John smiled. “And I’m pretty sure he could benefit from a sound shagging.”

A young man and two elderly women appeared from behind a copse of trees. They nodded at John, now blushing, as they passed by on their way back to the main road. He waited until they were out of earshot before he continued.

“Anyway, it’s made things a bit awkward — especially considering I moved back into 221B last week. But I’m ready now to talk to him about it.”

A bird chirped overhead. John grinned.

“You approve, then. That’s good.” His smile became a little melancholy. “I hope you know how much I love you and miss you. How much I always will. And how grateful I am to you: for loving me, for being such a wonderful partner and especially for this.”

He reached for the smooth, cool stone. He laid a hand on the top, just as he had at another marker some years before. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

There was a soft noise behind him and John turned, surprised (or maybe not really) to see Sherlock standing beside a large oak. He was staring at John quite intently, restless fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.

“You didn’t need to follow me again,” John said, gently chiding. “I’d have been happy for you to come. You don’t need to spend any more time lurking behind trees in cemeteries.”

Sherlock regarded his shoes. “I didn’t want to intrude. I just thought — I wanted to know you were…all right.”

“Have you been standing there long?”

Sherlock nodded.

“So you know I’m all right. A little nervous, though.”

Sherlock moved toward him. “I heard.”

“And?”

Sherlock stopped in front of John. He was so close they were standing toe to toe. John had to crane his neck to look up into the face of the taller man hovering over him.

“John, I…”

“Yes?”

Sherlock reached out and took one of John’s hands. He lifted it until it was at shoulder level. He held it there, staring at it as he laced the fingers with his own. Finally, he looked back at John.

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“No.”

John’s grin was a bit crooked. “Nor me.” He placed a tentative hand on Sherlock’s waist. “We’ll figure it out together, though, I think.”

Sherlock nodded, the corner of his lips turned up slightly.

“Home?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded once more, hesitating as John turned to lead him away. “I would like a moment,” he said softly.

“You…oh,” John looked back at his wife’s grave. “On your own?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled. “Please.”

John nodded, squeezing the taller man’s hand before stepping away. Sherlock waited until John was far enough down the path before turning to face Mary’s memorial. He stepped a little closer, his hand shaking as he mimicked John’s action of moments before. He touched the stone and took a deep breath.

“Thank you.”


End file.
